


swirling shadows in the shifting sands

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Missing Scene, Platonic Relationships, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 05:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11247198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: Sonya and Deen work for Grieth--not together, really, but not apart either. Their story is a complicated one, told more in silences than starts.(or, the one where Deen and Sonya learn a little about each other before it all falls apart)





	swirling shadows in the shifting sands

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about both Deen and Sonya. This is my first attempt to get those down in writing. Please enjoy!

Sonya talks to the witches under her command.

It’s one of the first intimate details Deen learns about her after they meet, and one of the last—Deen and Sonya are rarely in the same place for very long. For all that they work for the same man, they’re intended to be rivals. Grieth has all but told them that—told Deen, anyway. They’re naught but sellswords when it comes down to it, and Grieth intends to play them off of each other for maximum profit. Deen halfway expects to wake one night to the sight of the black eyes of a witch watching over him, prepared to take his life. Surely Sonya’s thought the same of his band of mercenaries—either that or she doesn’t think him a threat. Deen doubts that.

Deen’s not entirely sure where they came from—the witches, that is. From what Deen knows of these things, which is admittedly little, witches tend to answer to whoever sacrificed them to the god Duma. Sonya’s no arcanist, though, so there has to be something he’s missing.

He watches Sonya and her witches now as he reclines within the fortress on the desert outskirts, awaiting news from his men. They captured a blond mercenary looking to pick a fight with Grieth a while back. Deen sent him along to the Citadel with a few _escorts_ and has been waiting to hear news on the prisoner ever since.

What Sonya’s doing here is less clear.

“There, like that,” she says. One of the witches teleports across the desert, far enough away that Deen can hardly see her against the sands. Moments later, she returns. “Perfect.”

The witch’s expression doesn’t change. Privately, Deen is willing to admit that he finds her and the others horribly creepy.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Sonya says. She’s sweating in the sun; Deen can see the dark spots on her robes where she’s soaked through them. He doesn’t judge; underneath his armor, his clothes are likewise sopping wet. “Now, let’s try a little farther. Can you do that for me?”

* * *

Deen watches for hours. Sonya runs her witches through drills, which they excel at, and _team-building exercises_ , which fail miserably. It ought to be funny, but Deen can’t help but feel that he’s witnessing something catastrophically tragic.

The witches do not speak. Sonya talks to them, but if they hear anything other than her orders, they don’t give any indication. Their eyes don’t track, and their bodies hardly move except to cast spells.

Eventually, Sonya dismisses them. Her makeup has all but melted off in the heat, and Deen looks at his shoes. Women don’t like to be seen like in anything other than perfect condition. Better not to pick a fight with her now.

The witches congregate together in a puddle in the shade. Deen waits for them to sit, but they remain standing, blinking at irregular intervals. Once they’ve settled on a formation, they do not move.

“Deen,” Sonya greets, stepping through the gate. There’s a waterskin sitting by the door; she picks it up, does something with one hand, and takes a long drink. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Sonya,” Deen says by way of greeting. Names are a sign of respect, that’s what his father had taught him—use them with care.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

He grimaces. He hadn’t been trying to remain hidden, but he had hoped she wouldn’t pay him any mind.

“Your witches,” Deen says. “They answer to you?”

“Obviously,” she replies, tossing her hair. “They’re _mine_.”

“You sacrificed them yourself?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone. Sonya looks hurt, and she takes a moment to replace the cap on the waterskin before she answers.

“No,” she says. Deen waits, and Sonya says, “I killed the man who did.”

* * *

Days in the desert burn hotter than any fire, but as soon as the sun goes down, an icy chill rolls over the sands. Deen builds a fire inside the fortress in an open fireplace that vents through a column in the middle of the ceiling. He and a handful of his men crouch around it. The few he sent to the Citadel have yet to return. Deen’s decided that he gives it another day before he starts to worry about it.

The witches do not approach the fire, nor do they appear to feel the cold. Even so, Deen watches as Sonya adjusts their cloaks, putting their hoods up and wrapping them tightly as if they were children.

“There,” Sonya says, “stay warm now. It gets cold at night.”

Deen’s not the only one watching her, he knows, though he’s likely the only one with any degree of curiosity about her as a person. The mercenaries he commands speak of Sonya under their breath in crass terms, if infrequently. There’s no denying that she is quite a sight, but at this moment, he very much wants to tell his men to look anywhere else. This is no display intended for their eyes.

He doesn’t, if only because he honestly doesn’t think they’ll say anything untoward, not while he’s here.

Satisfied with her work, Sonya comes to sit by the fire.

“Not bad,” she says. A snap of her fingers and it grows larger, hotter. “But I can do better.”

Deen grunts. A mercenary by the name of Maddox speaks up.

“Say, Sonya,” he says. “Nice of you to join us. You’re wearing a lot of layers to be this close to the fire, though…”

“Shut it,” Deen orders, hardly thinking. Maddox falls silent, and Deen can tell Sonya’s watching him.

He glances back to the witches. They haven’t moved from their spot—again, they stand. They must sleep, he reasons, or at least sit. Don’t they?

“What about them?” Deen asks.

Sonya glances to the band of eerie women. It’s difficult to tell in the dark, but Deen thinks he sees several emotions run across her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but someone else—Killac, it’s Killac—speaks over her.

“Oooh, I could go for some more female company,” he says, slurping obscenely. “It’s been _months_ —”

“Maddox. Killac,” Deen says. Killac falls silent at the interruption. “You’re doing the rounds tonight. No shift changes. Go, now.”

Killac makes to whine, but someone—Maddox, likely—hits him to shut him up. Deen’s punished Maddox for speaking out of turn before; no doubt he’s remembering those times now and hoping not to receive worse than the night watch. They stumble out the entrance of the outpost. Deen thinks he hears Killac curse his name, but he doesn’t mind much. He’s been cursed so many times over, one more isn’t going to make much of a difference.

When Deen looks back to the fire, he notices that Sonya’s watching him. Several of his men peel off to go to bed soon after, or to pretend to. Now that the watch has been settled by executive order, there’s little reason to stay up.

“You’re an odd man,” Sonya says at long last. “I don’t trust you.”

Deen smiles. He regrets it immediately because it pulls at the scarred skin of his eye. A healer did what she could well after he sustained the injury, but by that time it had gotten infected and blistered. Even with her salves and potions and magic, it never healed properly. He’s never really gotten used to the feel of it.

“That makes two of us,” Deen says.

Sonya smiles. She’s reapplied her lipstick sometime between now and earlier, Deen sees, and it makes her teeth even brighter in the firelight.

“I think,” she says, enunciating sharply, “we’re going to make a wonderful team some day, if we don’t kill each other first.”

* * *

Deen doesn’t like the desert. He doesn’t mind the heat so much, though it is oppressive, or the sunshine, though he does burn easily. No, the real trouble with the desert is sandstorms.

He squints, unable to see the horizon through the thick pulses of sand. The wind howls terribly, and the world might as well be a gray-beige muddle of nothingness. His eyes ache—both of them. On the bad side, the grit gets into the yet-sensitive corners were his eye used to be. He knows from experience that rubbing only makes it worse, so he has to bear it. His good eye, on the other hand, stings just as badly because he can’t shield it if he wants to see anything at all.

Deen’s hearing isn’t compromised in the slightest, however, and when he hears someone approaching, he turns his back on the storm. Sonya stands inside the Citadel, frowning.

“I’ve got watch,” she says. “Get inside.”

Deen grunts and moves from his post. Sonya does a trick with her hands that creates a purple, pulsating wave. It undulates across the desert, slicing through the dense walls of sand.

“Nice trick,” Deen says. “What’s it do?”

“Find things that aren’t supposed to be there. It’s helpful in times like these,” Sonya says. She surveys the desert with a critical eye—eyes, Deen supposes. Sonya still has both of hers. “Of course, on a clear day, that can be seen for miles. Not very good for trying to find our enemies.”

Deen purses his lips at the _our_ aspect of the sentence.

“Did Grieth send you down here?” Deen asks.

Sonya doesn’t respond, and the lack of it tells Deen _no, he didn’t_.

“Why, then?”

Sonya shrugs.

“Maybe I wanted to come,” she says. “The war room’s packed with men, and you know how they get.”

Deen can’t help but crack a smile at that. It hurts, but it’s true.

“Yeah,” he says. He hesitates, then adds, “I volunteer to watch so I have time to think.”

“Oh?” Sonya asks. It’s an open-ended sort of thing; Deen suspects he could leave it entirely at that and she wouldn’t press him any more. Just to see if he’s right, he remains silent.

“I do the same,” she continues after a short period.

“And the witches?” Deen asks.

Sonya stiffens.

“They try,” she says. “For me, they try.” She fiddles with a ring on one of her fingers. Deen’s never seen her without it. It’s no wedding band, but it’s clearly important to her. “I don’t think I can get through to them.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Deen says. He means it to be comforting, but Sonya’s harsh laugh tells him he’s missed the mark.

“Lot of pressure on a girl,” she says. The mirth, though false, dies from her voice. “There has to be a way to get them back. I know it.”

Deen gazes out over the sandstorm. Now that he’s not out on the edge of it, he can actually keep his eyes open for more than a half-second at a time.

“Can I help?”

The question’s out before Deen can call it back. Sonya turns to him sharply, her jewelry clinking with the movement. She inclines her head in silent question; he merely shrugs and turns to the side.

“Never mind,” he says. “Thank you for taking the watch. I owe you.”

* * *

Deen’s fist connects with Harrow’s jaw with a loud _crack_. He follows it up with an uppercut, brutal and swift. It doesn’t have the impact he intended; to be quite honest, Deen had been hoping to send Harrow’s skull sailing across the damn wall. Harrow stumbles backwards, no longer truly in the fight. His eyes are shut and he’s bleeding from his cheeks and lips, not to mention the rest of him. If he survives, he’ll be covered in bruises for weeks.

Deen’s not sure he wants him to survive.

He raises a fist, intending to bring it down hard onto Harrow’s skull, when something passes before his hands. It’s hot and fast, obviously dangerous, and Deen falls back.

“Enough!” Sonya shouts. The crowd that’s formed around Deen and Harrow goes silent, or damn near close to. Behind Sonya, her gaggle of witches perches like a bunch of vultures, their dark eyes gleaming. Deen, absurdly, wonders if they drink blood. If so, they can do far better than sad excuse for a man who lays at his feet.

“Get him out of here,” Sonya orders, gesturing at Harrow. A handful of men step forward to grab him by the arms. He whines as he’s led away, much like an injured dog.

Deen spits on the sandstone and rights his posture.

“Anyone else?” he asks. He looks around to his men. None of them meet his eye. Cowards, one and all. “Leave us,” he orders. They scatter.

“Deen.”

Deen looks to Sonya. Her witches are yet behind her. To a person, their eyes are fixed on him.

“Deen, look at me,” Sonya says.

Deen looks to her again and does not avert his gaze.

“Okay,” she says. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, pulling away. She keeps a grip on him, and Deen doesn’t have the heart to rip her hands off of him.

“You nearly killed your lieutenant,” Sonya says. “Grieth’s going to want to hear about this. What happened?”

He snorts and tries to get his hair out of his eyes. It’s matted down with sweat and doesn’t move.

“I didn’t like his attitude,” he says. “Thought I’d teach him a lesson.”

“By killing him?” Sonya asks. “What, you want him to repent in the afterlife?”

“Bastards like that don’t _repent_ ,” Deen says, furious. “They _die_ and spare the rest of us their ignorance.”

Sonya sighs. She glances over her shoulder, seemingly looking at nothing at all.

“What happened?” she asks again. Deen doesn’t want to tell her. “Don’t do that. We need to be on the same page when Grieth comes along, so spit it out.”

Deen can’t look her in the eye.

“He wanted to kill you,” Deen says. “They’d belong to him, then.” He gestures at the witches.

“And?” Sonya asks.

Deen hesitates. He can’t say it.

“Oh,” Sonya says. Deen sees her face cloud over with rage. She exhales. “Now _I_ want to kill him.”

“Be my guest,” Deen says. “Scum like him don’t deserve to draw breath.”

“Big words coming from someone who works for Grieth,” she says.

That stings, just a little.

“He pays me,” Deen says. “I don’t have to like what he does.” He looks to Sonya. “It’s not a problem for you.”

Her frown deepens. There’s a yell from across the Citadel—Grieth himself, no doubt.

“No use thinking about it,” Sonya says. “It’s all business, except when it’s personal. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Grieth isn’t angry about Harrow; instead, it seems that the desert stronghold has fallen to some _kid_ and a pack of brats that follow her around like lost dogs. Grieth wants it taken care of; Sonya and Deen are all too happy to comply.

There are two other major fortresses in the desert, one to the north and one to the south. Sonya’s headed down south, seeing as she knows that territory better than Deen does. Deen’s going north for the same reason. No matter where the kid goes, she’s going to meet a bad end.

Before they depart, Deen finds himself making his way towards Sonya.

“Hey,” he says. Sonya’s packing a few bags on her own; it’s a longer journey to the southern fort than the northern one, and if she doesn’t get going soon, she runs the risk of losing a great deal of time and ground.

“Did you need something?” Sonya asks. She ties a bag shut with a little more force than necessary.

“I didn’t want to leave on a bad note,” he says.

“Well, I’ll be,” she says with a huff. “I’m listening.”

Deen scratches the back of his head. He hadn’t expected to actually say anything else.

“Just—take care, out there,” Deen says.

“I’m not worried,” Sonya says. She sits back on her haunches as she glances once at her ever-silent pack of witches. “We’ll emerge triumphant if they cross to the south. What about you?”

“Hm?”

“Your men can’t be happy with you after that stunt back there,” Sonya says.

“I can hold the north,” Deen says. “No kid’s going to get the best of me even if my men aren’t giving their all.”

Sonya hesitates, then fishes something out of the bag she just tied. It’s a stone of some variety; Deen steps back as she tosses it to him.

“Here,” she says belatedly. “Have one.”

“What is it?”

“Good luck charm.”

“Very funny.”

Sonya smiles.

“It’s an artifact of my own devising,” she says. “Sends messages of sorts. Let’s the other person know if you’re still alive, that sort of thing.”

“How does it work?” Deen asks. Against his glove, the stone looks nearly black. It’s light and matte, and something about gives him the chills. It’s cut into facets, like a crystal, but he’s never seen anything like it.

“You just carry it,” Sonya says. “Anywhere on you, really. I’ve got one here.”

“So, what,” Deen says, “I come running if you’re in trouble? Neither of us could cross the desert that fast.”

“I know,” Sonya admits. “Just humor me. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

“A bad feeling?”

Sonya looks to the sky.

“It’s probably nothing,” she admits. “Even so, just take it. As a favor to me.”

Deen pockets the stone. It sits heavy in his trousers, never mind how light it had felt in his hand.

“Sonya,” he says when she begins to turn away. He hesitates, then offers his hand. “See you on the other side.”

“See you on the other side,” Sonya echoes. She clasps his arm and squeezes. Deen can’t feel her fingernails through his armor, but he can feel the pressure, and it’s enough.

* * *

The men are jittery and anxious for a fight. Their outpost in the northern desert has far fewer resources than the Citadel does, both in terms of provisions and entertainment. Even given his altercation with Harrow, Deen’s men continue to come to him, asking if they can be on the next watch, eager to be the one to spot the enemy. Deen wonders if they know that today could be their last.

Overhead, the sun shines bright, malignant in its strength. Heat rolls off of the desert sands in waves, visible even to the human eye. It plays tricks on people, creating the illusion of trees, of shade, of enemies.

Deen squints at the horizon, unsure if the figures he sees are real or not. He’s acutely aware of the stone in his pocket, heavy as when he dropped it there in the first place. It doesn’t hold heat found, or if it does, it’s through some magical means. He can feel the chill of it through his trousers, and it’s as off-putting as it is welcome. Regardless of temperature, though, it hasn’t changed state since Sonya gave it to him. Deen supposes that means she hasn’t encountered their prospective foes yet.

“Deen!”

Deen looks to the watch—a fellow named Armaz, a Zofian deserter whose allegiances changed when the tides did.

“Banners on the horizon!” Armaz called.

_I’ve got a bad feeling about this one_. Sonya, looking to the sky.

“Form up,” Deen orders. The figures on the horizon draw closer.


End file.
